Midway through the second, Seattle tied it. A defensive breakdown—Weber lost his man in front of the net. Their forward tipped a point shot past our goalie. The goal was entirely preventable, entirely frustrating.
At the bench, I called, “Forget it. Next shift, we get it back.”
Two minutes later, we did.
Laasko intercepted a pass at our blue line, hit me with a stretch pass as I crossed center ice. I had Turner on my right, Holloway driving the net. Seattle’s defense faltered, giving me the lane I needed.
I carried the puck into the offensive zone, drew the defense toward me, then slid a pass across to Holloway. He one-timed it, but their goalie made a spectacular save. The rebound came to me at the hashmarks, and I didn’t hesitate—just fired it top shelf before the goalie could reset.
The red light flashed. 2–1 Stormhawks.
The goal felt like validation—like proof I still had it, that the Glaciers had been wrong to let me go, that I could lead this team to success. I celebrated with my linemates, but in the back of my mind, I thought about Wesley watching from the press box, saw his smile in my imagination.
Focus. Game’s not over.
The third period was defensive hockey at its finest—blocking shots, clearing rebounds, making Seattle work for every inch of ice. My legs were dead by the midway point, my lungs burning with each breath, my body screaming for rest that wouldn’t come until the final horn.
With two minutes left, Seattle pulled their goalie for the extra attacker. The pressure intensified—six attackers against five defenders, desperate attempts to tie the game, shots from everywhere.
I blocked a slap shot from the point, the puck catching me in the shin and sending electric pain through my leg. Didn’t matter. I got up, cleared the rebound, kept fighting.
Thirty seconds left. Twenty. Ten.
The horn sounded.
We’d won, 2–1 over Seattle, on the road, in a hostile building.
The team mobbed Gagnon, our goalie, celebrating like we’d won the Cup instead of a preseason game in October. But for an expansion team still finding its identity, every win felt monumental.
In the locker room afterward, the energy was electric. Players laughed, chirped each other, relived key moments. Coach Roberts gave a brief speech about building on this performance, then left us to our celebration.
I sat at my stall, my equipment half removed, my body aching in that satisfying way that came from a hard-fought victory. My goal and assist would make the highlight reels, but more importantly, the team had performed. Had played connected hockey. Had proven we belonged.
“Hell of a game, Cap.” Holloway dropped onto the bench beside me and grinned. “That goal in the second was filthy.”
“Lucky rebound.” I grabbed a towel and wiped the sweat from my face. “Whole line played well.”
“Team’s coming together.” Laasko joined us, still in his gear. “Feels different.”
“It is different.” And it was—the video game tournaments, the team building, the constant communication. My leadership style was working. “But we can’t get complacent. Vancouver tomorrow night will be tough.”
The mention of the Vancouver Vengeance sent a jolt through my system. My father’s last team. The city where I’d spent my teenage years watching him play, where I’d developed my own game, where memories of him still lived in my mother’s house.
Playing in Vancouver always felt significant. Tomorrow would be no different.
“All right, everyone, listen up!” Coach Roberts’s voice cut through the celebration. “Great win, but we’ve got a plane to catch. Bus leaves in twenty. Let’s move.”
The locker room erupted into organized chaos—players rushing through postgame routines, the celebration muted by the reality of immediate travel.
I showered quickly and dressed in my suit. My body ached pleasantly, my mind still buzzed with adrenaline and satisfaction.
On my way to the team’s bus, I ran into Wesley boarding the staff’s bus. We didn’t acknowledge each other, didn’t exchange glances, maintained a perfect professional distance.
But I was acutely aware of his presence. Wanted to approach him, to share this victory with him, to see his expression and know what he thought of my performance.
Later, I told myself.Be patient. Be careful.
The flight to Vancouver was short—barely ninety minutes in the air. By the time we checked into the hotel, it was nearly midnight, and exhaustion was settling into my bones.
